


when you get undressed (I'm losing my head)

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot, Slightly Public Sex, bit of clothes kink, bit of praise kink, both of them are little shits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: “Fine,” Eggsy mutters. He reaches up to wrap his fingers around Harry's wrist before he pulls away, pressing his thumb in. The other hand coming to rest against Harry’s chest, finger tracing down the delicate stitching. “Just thought you looked so good getting into it… thought you'd look just as nice getting out of it.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/gifts).



> I wrote a thing that can be actually tagged explicit now. I am so proud of myself. My first time writing proper smut - be gentle.
> 
> For eatingmoonflowers, who prompted: teasing kisses on every bit of skin + in the dark kiss. Which, well, I sort of did?
> 
> Thanks to hartwinorlose, becool--mallory and your-eggcellency for giving it a read over for me and assuring me it was decent :)
> 
> Also, much love and hugs to [becool--mallory](http://becool--mallory.tumblr.com), who made this [_gorgeous_ edit](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com/post/155962056452/becoolmallory-for-a-moment-eggsy-thinks-hes)! Go give her some love because her stuff is beautiful and brilliant!
> 
> Title from Hope by Tim Legend ft. Brave. Self-beta'd and all that.

Surely, Eggsy can't be blamed. Or so he keeps telling himself. 

What he's come to realize in the past few months is that Harry is incredibly self aware. Almost obnoxiously so, in a way that has Eggsy rolling his eyes most days—he won't say it, but it's a bit much. In a rather endearing way, granted. So, for Eggsy to be watching—no, _observing_ —Harry from the bathroom doorway as he readied himself for an evening out with, as he so aptly put it, pompous twats huffing about their self-perpetuating gentility at the opera, and for Harry to notice Eggsy staring… it makes a bit of sense, given that Harry always knows when eyes are on him. 

And maybe it shouldn't be this bad—he is, after all, borne witness to Harry's daily ritual of _becoming_ Harry Hart, the debonair, sardonic spy extraordinaire. No matter how hungover he is from getting too into the scotch with Merlin after hours again, or if he's dragged his arse out of bed forty minutes late just because he missed his alarm, or if he wakes up in the most ghastly kind of mood which happens often enough that it barely registers on Eggsy’s radar, Harry always takes his time in going about the process of transforming in to who he presents himself as to the public. And while Harry always carries himself with some dignity, even shuffling about the house with bed-tousled curls and a house robe Eggsy's sure is older than he is, it's always a bit of a wonder seeing him emerge from the bathroom, looking absolutely polished and distinguished and bloody gorgeous.

When he gets a little too smug with himself, Eggsy likes to quietly remind him that he has seen Harry practically weeping over the latest Eastenders. Harry always sniffs a bit indignantly at that, tries to give his well thought out reasons, but the fact of it remains: Harry watches trash telly that greatly undermines this impeccable and cultured gentleman facade he's crafted and Eggsy brings it up any opportunity he can. Level playing fields and all that. 

But tonight—it's something entirely different. And Eggsy _cannot_ be blamed. 

Harry's standing in front of the full length mirror, a look of serene concentration on his face as he expertly pins his cufflinks in place without so much as glancing down, something that Eggsy has yet to master but is just as happy watching Harry do. The delicate twist and tensing of his fingers is mesmerizing, making warmth trickle down Eggsy's spine every time, winding its way through his core, now absorbed in indistinct thoughts involving the cleverness of _those fingers._

Like any suit Harry owns, the tuxedo he is wearing has been tailored to accentuate his slim waist and broad shoulders. The black trousers, generously shaped around the curve of his arse, make his legs seem even longer; and, yeah, Eggsy isn’t complaining about that one bit, not from where he’s standing, admiring the view of Harry bending down to adjust his laces. Eggsy tries to shift his stance by the door discreetly, tugging down on his own tuxedo jacket.

Eggsy might have something for well-dressed gents. Or just Harry, really.

There's something especially resplendent about Harry tonight: his usual neatly parted hair still brushed back but with a more relaxed curl to the front that makes Eggsy suddenly want to drag his fingers through it. Standing in the soft glow of the bedroom floor lamp, smoothing his hands down the satin lapels, fingers coming back up to tug at his perfectly done bow tie—it's something Eggsy has seen hundreds of mornings but it doesn't lessen the urgent, desperate need that courses through him at that moment. 

So, when he crosses the room in a few short strides, coming up behind Harry to wrap his arms around his chest, and _maybe_ pushing himself up against Harry more than really necessary… well, like he's told himself, he can't be blamed. 

“Eggsy,” Harry warns in the voice that perfectly relays that he is not in an indulging mood.

Eggsy ignores him in favour of burying his face into shoulder, lips brushing tentatively against the nape of his neck. “Hmm—you smell _amazing_.”

“While I appreciate the compliment greatly, darling,” Harry says, carefully peeling Eggsy’s fingers from where they were clutching into Harry's perfectly creased lapels, “I'd rather you not ruin my suit.”

Eggsy lifts his head, catching Harry's pointed look in the mirror. He blinks. Harry offers him a placating smile and Eggsy groans, his hands dropping to his side. 

“Seriously? Harry, _come on_!”

“This is a mohair and wool blend,” Harry says curtly and when Eggsy answers with an indifferent shrug, Harry sighs, “with Italian silk lining.”

Yeah, he knows the importance of finely crafted textiles, had it drilled into his head during long hours at the Kingsman shop front _ta very much_ , but he couldn't really give a fucking toss about it at the moment considering his cock was straining expectantly against his trousers and Harry was standing in front of him looking like sin incarnate and he _needed_ to get his hands on Harry, get Harry's hands on him, and then his gorgeous mouth and then his wicked tongue and—Eggsy doesn't give a _fuck_ about Harry's mohair and wool blend tux, unless he's the one tearing it off him and throwing it across the room. 

Obviously, Harry has other ideas.

“You can wait a few hours, I'm certain.”

“You really wanna test that confidence?” Eggsy asks but when Harry fixes him with a levelled stare Eggsy huffs his reluctant concession and steps back with his hands raised. 

Harry uses this opportunity to turn and give Eggsy a lovely, if a bit chaste, kiss on the lips, his hand gently cupping Eggsy's jaw, thumb stroking down his cheek. Not exactly what he was looking for but he guesses it’s better than nothing.

Eggsy's feels far too warm and he’s a bit put out and achingly hard but—when Harry touches him with this quiet fondness, in his own understated way of affection that always makes Eggsy feel a little light-headed and sets his heart leaping wildly, Eggsy finds it hard to stay angry for long. 

“Fine,” Eggsy mutters. He reaches up to wrap his fingers around Harry's wrist before he pulls away, pressing his thumb in. The other hand coming to rest against Harry’s chest, finger tracing down the delicate stitching. “Just thought you looked so good getting into it… thought you'd look just as nice getting out of it.”

For a moment, Eggsy thinks he's broken Harry's resolve: the purposeful trailing of Harry's thumb on his cheek stills, a familiar look of fierce greed in Harry's gaze as it flickers across Eggsy's face, the barest hitch of breath when the corners of his mouth twitches. Things that would mean little to someone who did not know Harry as well as Eggsy did. To Eggsy, it's a sign of the indomitable control loosening its grip on Harry and, oh, did Eggsy fucking _love_ to see the moment Harry shifts his piercing focus from the world around him to just Eggsy alone. 

Somehow, Harry made coming undone so obscenely elegant. 

But Harry pulls back and the practiced charm takes place of the moment of wayward lust, taking on the air of man so wholly composed that not even a bomb going off could phase him. And it usually doesn't. 

“You best be sorting that out before we leave,” Harry comments after he's checked himself one last time in the mirror and gathering up his dress coat, gesturing to the obvious bulge in Eggsy's trousers, heading down the hall with a flippant, “Far too warm for a long overcoat tonight, darling.”

Eggsy's sure can hear the bastard laughing down the stairs. 

—

Harry has them seated in a private box at the theatre because _of course_ he does. He's Harry Hart and any opportunity he has to be passively aggressively polite will not be wasted. Most people see the boxes as a luxury while for Harry they are a necessity. Eggsy knows Harry books the box months in advance to avoid the crush of crowds and too close bodies in the lower auditorium seats, having to deal with murmurs and barely suppressed coughs and restless fidgeting that annoys him in a way Eggsy thought was only reserved for truly grievous acts of heinously botched attempts at cordialness in public crowds.

But the privacy of the box, high above the others, tucked in behind draped velvet curtains and practically shrouded in darkness, gives Eggsy an entirely different appreciation of the exclusivity. 

Harry likes it for how quiet it is. Eggsy likes it for a whole bunch of other things, majority of them particularly ungentlemanly.

And most of which he has been thinking of for last half hour. He’s made it halfway through the show before he gives up paying attention altogether, now distracted by his increasingly vulgar and intrusive thoughts, and starts to get frustratingly bored. 

Eggsy's not entirely convinced at this point that Harry isn't changing the measurements behind his back when he commissions new suits to make them just _that much_ tighter. And even though Harry is watching the stage with what seems an intense deliberation, one finger pressed to his lip, dutifully ignoring Eggsy's persistent squirming and irritated huffs, the demented pervert is obviously thoroughly enjoying _both_ shows, if the mildest quirk of his lips is anything to go by. 

“Do you like torturin’ me?” Eggsy asks Harry during the intermission after a thunderous applause dies down and Harry is flipping idly through the playbook. 

“You know the answer to that, darling,” Harry answers without looking up. 

Fucking hell. So it was going to be _that_ kind of night. 

Once Harry’s got his mind to something, it was impossible to get him to compromise in any capacity. Persistent, stubborn, motivated: whatever people wanted to call it, it served it’s purpose well in his line of work. Unfortunately, for Eggsy, it was a matter of inconvenience when it came to the two of them, Harry’s fixation turning more indecent in nature.It usually ended with him begging, _fuck me, please—fuck, just fuck me,_ always spread out beneath Harry and writhing beneath fleeting, teasing touches. Naked and whimpering, a barely contained mess of strung-out, hazy need—which, obviously, is what Harry wants of the situation. 

Eggsy would be lying if he said he didn't like it just as much. A shivering, intoxicating kind of vulnerability, yielding to Harry's every deliberate touch, obey his murmured commands and keen to his effortless praises, _on your knees—open your eyes so I can see you—beautiful darling—you're doing so well dear boy—never seen a more exquisite creature and you’re all mine—_ playing the part so perfectly that even Harry can't contain himself under the carefully crafted farce for very long. It was maddening, sure, this little game they played with each other, how it was equal parts excruciating in testing his admittedly short patience and how mercilessly arousing it was to be at Harry’s command. It surprised him, how eager he was for Harry’s approval, to be obedient—not just under his constant guidance to learn to be a gentleman or under his discerning eye while training as an agent. But in every facet of his life, how it extended into every part of their relationship. He craved it like nothing else, his care and his attention and his devotion.

It seemed much more necessary while he was naked and nearly disoriented with how fucking good it felt, how it erred just this side of too much that he could barely stand it, but always not enough. Harry making cruel promises to make him come without touching, Eggsy trying with panting desperation to fuck himself down on the three fingers Harry has buried in him, blissed out on Harry’s pleased smile and whispered accolades, _gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, I know you can—just for me._

And he does, usually. Just for him. Anything for him.

But—tonight. As the lights go down and the din of chatter falls to a comfortable silence below, Eggsy thinks with a new found determination—tonight will be different.

When the orchestra starts up and the curtains are drawn back, Eggsy slips his hand down the inside of Harry’s arm to rest on his wrist, just above the cuff of his shirt. He rubs his thumb absently along the delicate bones, a faint tremor of a pulse felt when he pauses. He keeps his eyes fixed in front of him, not really seeing, fully engaged in feeling every minute movement Harry might make.

It takes a few minutes but he hears the creak of the chair as Harry shifts, the fluttering of muscles beneath his fingers when Harry curls his hand into a loose fist. Eggsy hazards a brief glance in his direction—only to find Harry still watching the stage with the same level of absorption he had before.

Eggsy slots his fingers into Harry’s, thumb pressing briefly into the hollow of Harry’s palm. He gives their linked hands a tentative tug and when he finds no real resistance, he brings the back of Harry’s hand to his lips, taking his time to press furtive, heated kisses to his knuckles. He lets himself linger across Harry’s fingers, letting his lips catch and drag around the curve of his finger, warm breath ghosting across Harry’s skin.

There is a crescendo in the music, a crash of symbols and quaking, reverberating roar of strings. Harry merely blinks slowly, like it had caught him off guard coming out from a deep sleep. Eggsy felt a little rush of triumph and renewed confidence, can’t help the satisfied grin that creeps along his lips.

It’s like pulling fine threads apart, untangling little knots of string, making slow work of Harry’s will. And most times Eggsy would rather bypass all the foreplay, wanting to get to the _proper_ fucking that he was really after: the quiet litany of choked-off moans against skin and that tingling exquisite heat thrumming through his veins and dwandering hands desperate for anything to hold on to. 

But it was Harry who taught Eggsy that patience was a virtue.

Hard lesson to learn, that, trembling with every nerve frayed and lit like fire, Harry’s hands hovering over him, and the shameless sound of his frantic, breathy moans, shot through with a depraved kind of want that sufficiently obliterated any other train of thought. 

_Slowly, Eggsy._ It was Harry’s favourite thing to say, to taunt him with. _Slowly, slowly, it’s meant to be savoured,_ he would murmur, all heat and ??, against Eggsy.

Well, Eggsy had every intention of savouring this.

Eggsy lets their hands fall between them as he pushes up in his seat, steadying himself with his free hand, leaning in to kiss the angle of Harry’s jaw. The barest hint of clenching muscles ripple beneath his touch before Harry tilts away slightly—but it's not an indication to stop. It's difficult to see in the half-dark but he's sure he sees Harry smirk. _A challenge_. Eggsy’s grin widens as he ducks his head, mouthing along Harry’s jaw, relishing the taste of warm skin and the faint smell of aftershave.

He pulls his hand out from between them, from where Harry’s grip had tightened, balances himself once again so he can reach up with his other hand to caress Harry’s face, fingers running through the soft curls around Harry’s temple, pad of his thumb brushing slow, tentative circles on Harry’s cheek. He can feel the heat, the flush prickling across Harry’s face, unmistakable in its intensity beneath his fingertips.

Harry makes a small, appreciative hum when Eggsy moves his attention down to the hollow dip below Harry’s ear, laying open mouthed kisses down his neck, marking the sensitive skin with a drag of of his teeth. He may get a bit carried away, judging by Harry’s sudden hiss, his hand jumping up to wrap his fingers firmly around Eggsy’s wrist. Eggsy swipes his tongue in gradual, soothing motions, gently sucking at the already reddening skin.

It would leave a mark. Perfect, Eggsy thinks.

“Eggsy,” Harry sighs, part exasperated, part reluctantly ardent, “I’m trying to—”

“No you’re not,” Eggsy cuts him off, punctuating this with a playful nip of his teeth at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

And Harry says nothing more.

Below them, the play continues on and the music rises and falls and Eggsy knows he’s making some kind of lewd noises, which seem obscenely loud even in their privacy. Harry still has his grip on Eggsy's wrist, fingers pressing against his fluttering pulse, urging him on.

Eggsy doesn't even realize he’s moved until he’s settling himself over Harry’s legs, his own thighs spread at an angle that pulls what little slack he had left of his trousers taut, rubbing with a cruel pleasure across the leaking head of his cock. If Harry just let him take that damned tux off, get his hands on him properly, he could come just like this, still dressed, and oh wouldn’t Harry _love_ that, completely untouched like he’s always asking for—

Harry’s hands are on his face, guiding him down, dazed and searching, into an intoxicating kiss of ragged breath and blinding need: Harry drawing Eggsy closer, their mouths crushed against each other, with Harry swallowing down Eggsy’s restless moans in a way that makes him go a bit shaky. Harry’s hands trail over the curves of Eggsy's shoulders, down to the small of his back in long, leisurely movements. But when his hands settle on Eggsy’s shuddering hips, holding him down, he can feel the tremble of Harry’s hands—that self control finally fracturing, inch by glorious inch.

Harry kisses him desperately, a new kind of fervour to it, a possession and determination to take back control. His mouth is warm and delectable in all the things it promises—that tongue now dragging across his bottom lip would be marking its way down his chest, over the jut of his bare hip, on the inside of his thigh. The thought, the all too familiar memory of it, sends an eager burning thrill through him, making him grind down against Harry, hands flexing uselessly against the nape of Harry’s neck when the man gasps beneath him.

“You’re gonna have to take this fucking thing off if you want me to keep going,” Eggsy mutters against the side of Harry's mouth.

“You are a bloody nuisance,” Harry replies. 

“I told you, it's the tux,” Eggsy says contemplatively, running his fingers under Harry’s collar. “Not even really ‘bout you, now that I think of it...”

Harry's hands tighten, pulling Eggsy's hips down in a luscious drawn-out motion, the friction of Harry's thigh dragging along Eggsy's hardening length sending tendrils of heat radiating out and under his skin, making him tense in anticipation and an unexpected keen fall from his slack mouth. 

“ _Jesus_ , Harry,” Harry moans, suddenly unable to keep his focus. He did good for a while but once Harry had his attentions back on him, Eggsy always came apart easily, without much prompting. _Fuck_ , the things Harry could do to him still, even when he was expecting it. 

“I _told_ you,” Harry berates him, his tone playful and considering, one hand moving down to grope the curve of his arse, hauling him further on his lap, “to wait.”

“Guess I need another lesson,” Eggsy replies, not really thinking of what he's saying, just rambling for something to do with his mouth—though he had better ideas of what could be done with it. 

Harry looks up at him and even in the dark, the glint in his eye is unmistakeable. His voice has gone rough and heady when he says, “It seems you do.”

And, fuck, that’s it for Eggsy. He’s not waiting a second longer.

—

It was supposed to be _his_ lesson. And a lot of the time, he’s willing to let Harry teach. But one thing Harry doesn’t have to teach him is perseverance. That's something innate, something someone has to have from the start.

So, Eggsy considers it a personal victory that he has Harry on his knees (in _his wool and mohair blend suit with the Italian silk lining_ ), nearly breathless at the debauched sight of him with flushed cheeks hollowed out, slick reddened lips stretched beautifully around his cock, taking him all the way down to the base with an ease that never fails to amaze him, making him bite back a moan at the way Harry relaxes around it, eyes fluttering closed, hands kneading against Eggsy's thighs. 

It took more discipline than Eggsy thought he possessed to not come as soon as Harry had him half-undressed, pressing reverent open-mouth kisses on the inside of his thigh, trailing a path up to base of his cock, one hand stroking him in swift, practiced movements. When Harry finally closed his mouth around the head, tongue swirling around and across the slit, already slick with precome, Eggsy had to shove the heel of his palm between his teeth to keep himself from crying out. 

He can hear the muffled footfalls of someone walking past the door, of voices drawing near, and it's at that moment Harry decides to slip a finger in between Eggsy's legs, running a feather-light touch along his perineum and Eggsy lets out a half-yelp, half-laugh at the sensation. Can feel the smirk of Harry's lips as he pulls back, tongue dragging under the length of him, sucking against the sensitive head, humming gently in a way that made Eggsy feel both weak and overstimulated in a maddeningly wonderful rise and fall, ramped up by this thundering heart, like plummeting from a great height.

Harry never does anything half-way, not even a blowjob in the back room of an opulent theatre house. Eggsy's both grateful and rather burdened by it—he just needed to take the edge off so they could get home without Eggsy defiling yet another Kingsman cab but Harry thinks it _ungentlemanly_ not to take his time and give everything it's due. 

So, if Harry complains about his posh trousers getting wrecked, Eggsy will just have to remind me that _he_ was the one who couldn't wait until they got home. 

Harry's hand is heavy on him, holding him back from rocking into the splendid wet heat of his mouth, hips stuttering in aborted movements. The pleasant swell winds low in his belly as Harry works his hand along his cock in time with his mouth, thumb running under the vein, pushing with gentle pressure as a jolt of pleasure surges through him. 

There's still the sound of the theatre beyond, a quiet murmur, and the half-dark that surrounds them. It all seems completely filthy and all the more amazing for it; he’s able to see the outline of Harry through the light spilling in from under the door, the blue of the moon through the windows, eyes adjusting to the shadows and gone wide. 

Harry looks stunning, always remarkable in endless ways, and Eggsy runs his hands through his hair, fingers dragging back those fine curls, a hushed bloom of adoration unfurling in his chest.

“Harry,” Eggsy warns, barely able to get the word out in his daze, his voice gone thready and thin.

He comes, moaning through a bitten lip, hand tangled in Harry's hair, as Harry makes a satisfied noise as Eggsy spills down his throat. And he swallows without even a shudder, pulling off to wipe delicately at his bottom lip. Eggsy can’t do much more then watch, having to keep himself steady, dumbfounded.

Eggsy shivers in the after-glow as Harry presses tender kisses to his inner thighs, his hips, sending little sparks of sated delight across too-sensitive skin, through worn-out nerves. His breathing evens out as Harry sets him right, pulling up his boxers and trousers, buckling the belt with expertise as he rises to his feet. 

“No patience, you,” Eggsy teases, head rolling up from where it had fallen back against the wall, a dopey smile tugging at his lips. 

Harry makes a dismissive noise before leaning forward to kiss him. There's something strangely endearing about kissing Harry like this, his lips warm and soft, the taste of himself trapped behind his teeth, one that Eggsy chases after like a man drowning. 

When they finally separate, Eggsy can't stop grinning, feeling rather proud of himself for even pulling it off. Harry rolls his eyes, scolding him, “Oh, don't think I'm done with you, dear boy. That's quite the little stunt you pulled.”

“Is that so?” Eggsy asks. “Maybe I ain't done with you either.” Eggsy reaches up to flick his fingers against Harry's bow tie. “Still haven't got you out of this, like I planned to.”

Harry's eyebrows rise, questioning. “Who said I will be undressing at all?”

Something dark and excited scores through the hazy warmth he had been dozing in. Eggsy straightens, arching his back so that he's pulled up against Harry in the way he knows he likes—bold and just a touch delirious in its insistence. 

Harry knows he’s already won. Eggsy doesn't care in the slightest. 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“It always is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me @ **[notbrogues!](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com)**


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